Though I was young, I was already something of a foodie, by which I mean that I had developed a cluster of firmly held culinary prejudices, a mishmash of New York snobbery and reactionary regionalism that, considered together, added up to a telling, not altogether flattering self-portrait.

…I abhorred every meal I’d ever eaten at a wedding or benefit. I was better than that. This was to be the first night of the rest of my life, my first night as a hostess and wife, and the food served on that rented china atop those be-tableclothed tables under the live oaks was going to be the proving ground for a lifetime of hospitality, grace, and good taste.

What I didn’t realize was that I was messing with a law as immutable as entropy or gravity. Hundreds of guests + unreasonable expectations + catering – billions of dollars = rubber chicken. Hubris, that was my problem.

Now, go buy it so I can be rich and famous like Julie Powell. (Kidding, sort of.)